The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (18 page)

—That's good water came out of that tap, Charlo said. —Only the best.

I remember Nicola loving the stairs, our own stairs — she didn't have to share it with anyone. She sat on them while we went from room to room. The sun reflected off Charlo's watch, a bright spot on the front bedroom wall. John Paul saw it and squealed and the two of them stayed there for an hour, playing with the light-spot on the wall, until the sun dropped away. Myself and Nicola went out to the back garden and decided what we'd grow there. Banana trees. I wasn't certain if bananas grew on trees. (I'm still not.) Nicola was positive about it. Potato trees. Orange trees. Gooseberry bushes.

—Trees.

—Bushes, love.

—Trees.

—Trees and bushes then. One for each of us.

It was cooler in the back garden; it was cold.

—I don't know if we'll be able to grow bananas on this side, love.

I remember everything about that day. (I don't remember actually moving in a few days later.) I remember it all. And I believe everything I remember. A new start. Warm on one side of the house, cold on the other. The taste of the tea. The packet of Kimberley biscuits. John Paul filling his little mouth with biscuit, and emptying it. Nothing to clean it up with. The smell of the house. The echoes. The toilet, using it the first time. Launching it, Charlo said. He left the door open while he went loudly on top of the water. Nicola sitting on the stairs, shuffling herself until she was nice and comfy. Scraping the tape off the new window in the kitchen with my thumbnail. Closing the door behind us when we were leaving. Not wanting to leave. Closing the door gently. Our new door. His hand on my back. Nicola's hands on my legs. John Paul asleep on Charlo's shoulder.

—I can't fuckin' wait, said Charlo.

I backed closer to him, agreed with him. We looked at the door, and up at the rest of the house. Then we went on to my parents' house — it was Sunday. Two buses. It started to rain. The four of us upstairs in the bus.

—Paddy on the railway track picking up stones, along came the train and broke Paddy's bones.

I remember everything; I'm sure I do. I remember it all, but I remember this as well: the pain in my arm where he'd pinched me the night before, the huge bruise that his finger and thumb had left. He'd made me follow him all through the flat, pulling me by the flesh of my arm. It was agony. He'd speed up and slow down, squeeze harder if I cried out or said anything. Because he wanted to do it. I don't remember the excuse. Because he could. The pain couldn't have been worse. What was the fuss; it was only a pinch. It was agony, out of nowhere. He dragged me for minutes. Until Match of the Day started. The music always reminds me. (There's still a mark there, on the inside of my arm, little red pinpricks left by his bitten nails.) I remember that Nicola wouldn't let him touch her. She was all over me. She never let go. I had to sit beside her on the stairs. She pawed me and held onto me all day. I remember being nervous. I remember being scared when it started to rain, that it would change Charlo's mood. I was worried that John Paul would get on Charlo's nerves. John Paul never rested when he was asleep. He squirmed all the time; it was impossible to get comfortable when you were carrying him. I remember closing my eyes when I saw the Kimberley biscuit and milk on the back of Charlo's shirt, deciding what was best, whether to tell him about it or not, terrified that somebody else would tell him first. Charlo wouldn't have cared, I know that, but at the time it seemed vital. I remember it. Everything was fragile and hysterically important. I was tired and gleaming from lack of sleep; my eyes didn't fit, my shoulders ached. I was sore from sex that I hadn't wanted. I remember I wanted to get away; I wanted to run. I couldn't stand any more. But I didn't want to run. I wanted everything to be perfect; everything was going to be great — I just had to be careful. I was responsible for it all. The clouds coming, I was dragging them towards us; my thoughts were doing it. I was ruining everything. It was up to me. I could control the whole day. All I had to do was make sure that I made no stupid mistakes. Don't walk on the cracks. Don't look at the clouds. It's up to you. A lovely day and I hated every minute of it. Every step was into a huge black hole; there was nothing underneath me. Nicola's tears, John Paul's snotty nose, spilling the sugar onto the floor — everything made me panic. Everything was heading into disaster. Our chance for a fresh start and I was going to wreck it. Something I'd do, something I'd say. Anything. It would be me. Me and my big feet or my big mouth, my butter fingers or my fat ugly face. It would be me. I'd ruin it before we could start.

Stop.

That's the thing about my memories. I can't pick and choose them. I can't pretend. There were no good times. I can never settle into a nice memory, lie back and smile. They're all polluted, all ruined. Nothing to look back at that isn't painful or sick. My tongue explores the gaps in my mouth and I remember how I lost my teeth. Every day, every time I move my tongue. I move my shoulder on a damp day and I remember. I see packets of Kimberley biscuits stacked up in the supermarket and I remember. The tiny old bruises on my arm. The scar on my chin. Leanne wetting the bed. The smell of old cigarette smoke. The taste if I put too much sugar in my tea. The empty fridge. The creak in the fourth step of the stairs. The bell. Match of the Day. The sun lighting up the kitchen at teatime in the summer. They all remind me. They all stab me. They laugh at me and never let me go.

Memories are made of this.

A taxi to the hospital. He held my hand and put his free arm behind my back to keep me steady, so my arm wouldn't bash against the door or the seat. He chatted with the driver. He was relaxed, in control, looking after me. They were talking about the Stardust; it had been a week since the Stardust fire. They both knew people who had died. They were sorting through them, trying to find out if they knew any of the same people. I listened to them. I knew people too but I said nothing. I didn't want to intrude. He was speaking on my behalf, for us both. His shock was mine, his opinions. I was always like that when Charlo was talking. I was happy listening to him. He had just pulled my arm out of its socket, less than an hour before, and I was listening to him; I was actually admiring him, proud of him. He'd run next door to get their young one, Ann, to babysit for us and to phone for the taxi. She thought we were going to the pictures. I was a mess but my coat was good.

—Which one are you going to see? she said.

—We'll see what's on when we get there, I said.

We saw the lights of the taxi pulling up outside.

—Are we off so? said Charlo.

—There's a bottle fixed up for John Paul in the fridge, I told Ann. —Remember to test it first before you give it to him, won't you. We won't be too long.

—Okay. Have a nice time.

It had been a long time since he'd hit me. I'd filled John Paul's bottle and screwed the lid on one-handed. I remember being interested in how I was managing. I'd opened the fridge door, gone to the table for the bottle and the fridge door had shut by the time I got back with it. I put the bottle on the floor and opened the fridge again. I remember thinking about Mrs Doyle from Courtown's little granddaughter dying behind the fridge door. I was doing everything left-handed. He'd pulled out my right arm. I don't have to remember that. That noise is always there.

He opened the taxi door for me and got me in.

—Careful now, he said.

Him and the driver swapped names all the way, and stories of narrow escapes and tragedy. Charlo sounded like a spokesman for the area; the driver kept looking in his rearview mirror at him.

He always came with me. Always stayed at my side. Always brought me home after I'd been fixed up. Always looked after me. He gave the driver his money and tip before he got out of the car. Then he went round to my side and opened the door. The driver waited for me to get out. Charlo held onto my good arm. He bent down and spoke before he slammed the door.

—Good luck so.

He helped me into Casualty, almost did my walking for me. He sat and stood beside me all the time. He let me do all the talking and explaining. He smiled at nurses and doctors. He smiled apologetically when I told them that I'd fallen down the stairs. He was always there. I could see him on the other side of the curtain. I remember that night. I looked drunk and scruffy. My hair was greasy and flat — I still had it long back then. (I was still young.) Charlo looked well and smelt of the Old Spice my mother had given him for his birthday. You'd have felt sorry for him that night, being stuck with me. A drunken bitch who kept falling down the stairs and walking into doors. But he stayed by my side. He stood by me. He held my hand and patted my arm. He took full responsibility for me.

I'd been there before but it had been a good while. I knew some of the faces. I watched while I waited. I was in a daze, really. Drunk men and kids. A few women. I wondered why they were there. Waiting for their kids and husbands, I supposed. (Once, I heard a woman near me telling the nurse that she'd walked into a door, and I believed her. I felt sorry for her. Her eye was completely closed and in a state mat didn't really have a colour, awful to look at. I couldn't take my eyes off it. She was in a very bad way, shaking and gulping. It never dawned on me that she was lying, the same way I always lied. I believed her completely; she must have been running when she hit the door, chasing after the kids or something. There were always other women there when I was there, waiting their turn like me, wounded women. I never once thought that I wasn't the only one who'd been put there by her husband. Seeing them there made me feel even worse; they were there because of honest accidents. I was there because of my husband's temper, because I'd provoked him, because I didn't deserve him. I envied them. And sometimes I hated them. They didn't know how lucky they were with their real accidents.) I knew some of the nurses. They came and went, did different shifts — left, got married — but I recognised some of them. (Maybe some of them had husbands who beat them.) I liked the nurses; I liked watching them work. They ran the whole show, really. They stayed calm and busy without rushing, patient with everybody. They were the life of the place. I wished I'd been a nurse.

—Fair play to them, said Charlo. —It can't be easy.

There was always a wait. I was never hurt enough to jump the queue. The crying and the moaning, the stretchers being wheeled in, seeing children tied to them — it took weeks to get it all out of my head. It was a mad place. Some of the people strolling around really did look crazy, staring at the ground, mumbling, holding onto arms that were bandaged, holding towels up to their faces. Some of them looked dangerous; broken, noisy people. I never saw myself in the middle of it. I was always on the side, not really there at all. Dropping in. There under false pretences. I felt ashamed, only myself to blame.

Sometimes it was different. Sometimes I'd think that I could escape if I could get behind the right curtain, if I was asked the right questions.

Ask me.

Charlo was always beside me, always near, but if I got the right doctor or nurse I'd be safe. They'd see, and they'd take me away. They'd take me through a door and I'd be gone before Charlo knew it. I'd have the kids out of the house before he got home. We'd be gone without ever having to look at him again. They'd help; they'd do it for me. There was a room up at the top of the hospital where we could stay, a place where he could never find us, with huge windows and a balcony. The right curtain. I just had to be in the right place in the queue. Open Sesame. I'd be led behind the curtain and it would be over. I'd be mended and safe. We'd be happy and safe. I'd get worked up waiting. I believed it was just a matter of luck. Maybe this time. A nurse would look at me and know. A doctor would look past his nose. He'd ask the question. He'd ask the right question and I'd answer and it would be over. Charlo was always with me. He was always there. Behind the curtain was the only time I was alone. His shadow on the curtain. A few minutes. One question. One question. I'd answer; I'd tell them everything if they asked.

Ask me.

I'd have told them everything, I swear to God I would have. If they'd asked. I'd have whispered it. If they'd asked first. He pulled my arm behind my back and lifted me off the floor. It would have been easy after that, watching them listening. He hit me. He kicked me there. He burned me here. He did it. He did it. Save me. I'd have told them everything. I just had to be brought behind the curtain, asked the right question.

It was my turn.

—Mrs Spencer?

—Yes.

—Doctor will see you now.

I followed the nurse. She held the curtain open for me. She smiled. I'd seen her before; she had a new hairstyle. Charlo kept my coat. He followed me, as far as the curtain. I was in. I sat on a chair.

—Doctor'll be here in a minute.

I knew her; she'd seen me before. She was from the country somewhere. She looked at me. She nodded at me.

—In the wars again.

—Yes, I said.

She looked at her watch.

—Fell down the stairs again, I told her. —Sorry.

—You poor thing, she said.

She was nice. I didn't want to disturb her. She had a boyfriend of her own; she was bound to have. There was no engagement ring. Maybe he was saving for one, like Charlo had.

—In the dark, she said.

—Yeah, I said. —The bulb was gone.

—God.

It wasn't going to happen. It wasn't the right curtain.

—It'll all be over in no time, she said.

—Busy tonight?

—Sure, stop.

There'd be no escape. I could see Charlo's shape walking up and down outside. It would be fine later, when we got back home. He'd be great. I'd learnt my lesson. He'd bring me up a cup of tea. He'd get up with the kids in the morning, let me stay in bed. It wasn't so bad. It would be fine for a while.

The baby was gone before I knew if it was a boy or a girl. Between Leanne and Jack. Born too early; born by a fist. A girl. I never saw her. Her name is Sally.